Bois
Don't Tell
Tell your friends about politics
About climate tell your mother
Tell your mother about your sister
Unless you don’t know don’t tell
Tell about your fantasy
Tell about your biggest lies
Tell about your virtual friends
Unless you don’t know don’t tell
Bubbles
We are bubbles
Meet me at 3:00 a.m. in a grocery store in Brooklyn
Going to a party on a ferry boat in Morgim
Deliver a kosher pizza within 10 on my bike
Or pay you a drink in a Waikiki shack if you like
We are bubbles
We are droplets
We are stars
We are bubbles
We are sparks
Play the carpenter for few bucks in Tennessee
Or shoot kids fashion on 1st avenue, New York City
Drinking Thums Up with a second hand straw in Bombay
And displaying picture frames in an art show on Broadway
We are bubbles
We are droplets
We are stars
We are bubbles
We are sparks
The Skin
So many people have struggled to light up the lights
So many already have died for equal rights
You can’t discuss, racialism is the new trend
Just in your tribe, inside your borders make a friend
Your skin is not a sin
Don’t let the lights be shot down by pampered kids
No pride or guilt of what you are but what you did
They say you can do anything, the cause is right
But don’t do what you can, and instead think what you might.
Your skin is not a sin
Fer
Between ( New York )
Between the sky and gutters
Between hot dogs and burgers
Between bridges and tunnels
Between laughters and troubles
Ooooooooh New York
Between fire and water
Between mind and matter
Between concrete and bubbles
Between songs and fables
Oooooooooh New York
Perfect Day ( Lou Reed cover )
Just a perfect day, drink sangria in the park
And then later, when it gets dark, we go home
Just a perfect day
Feed animals in the zoo Then later a movie, too
And then home
Oh, it's such a perfect day
I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh, such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on
Just a perfect day
Problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own, it’s such fun
Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good
Oh, it's such a perfect day
I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh, such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on
You're going to reap just what you sow
You're going to reap just what you sow
You're going to reap just what you sow
You're going to reap just what you sow
Springtime in New York City
Patti and Tom on Bowery
On Mc Dougall, Zimmy
On Lafayette, Ziggy
Paul was in the Park with Artie
While Debbie burned the CBGB
Where Lou and Maureen came to meet Andy
Springtime in New York City
Is always always always always always
On my mind
Sang
More Than Blood
Breath the air
And keep the flame
Death is pain
And birth the same
Kill an animal cut the steak
Mash the potato bake the cake
Even if we want we can eat our God
‘Cause life anyway is more than blood
Walk on grass cut the flower
Cook the pork sweet and sour
If we want we can eat our God
‘Cause life anyway is more than blood
Kill an animal cut the steak
Mash the potato bake the cake
If we want we can eat our God
‘Cause life anyway is more than blood
Nataraja (The World is Burning)
Some say everything is lost
Some ..it’s our last chance
Other pray the Holy Ghost
I just wanna dance
Moving jumping dancing
The world is burning
Dancing rolling burning
Nataraja’s dancing
Pretending they carry the light
They set our house on fire
Already they turned on the night
And follow the liars
Moving jumping dancing
The world is burning
Dancing rolling burning
Nataraja’s dancing
Sitting still or walking
Yet inside it’s burning
Moving jumping bouncing
The whole world under the skin
Moving jumping dancing
The world is burning
Dancing rolling burning
Nataraja’s dancing
Jesus Mary Ganesh
Neither of Jesus, Mary, Ganesh
Will save my soul from blood and flesh
Nor any saint, nor any god
Will keep my soul from flesh and blood
Breathing’ in and breathin’ out
Shut up the monkeys that scream and shout
Breathing’ out and breathing’ in
Feel the whole world under the skin
Neither of Jesus, Mary, Ganesh
Will save my soul from blood and flesh
Nor any saint, nor any god
Will keep my soul from flesh and blood
From the top of the head
to the tip of the toe
From the tip of the toe
to the top of the head
Nuage
I Love my FB
No « Hit the road », no « Down the street »
I do insta-selfie, I do Tweet
No friend to care for, no one to meet…
…I’m on FB
I love my FB I love my FB
C’est la vie
I don’t watch TV, no newspaper
I’m a TikTok influencer
I got tons of followers …
…I’m on FB
I love my FB I love my FB
C’est la vie
I’m not a sheep, nor a dancing bear
I know that "some" control "them" somewhere
I’m never here, I’m always there …
…I’m on FB
I love my FB I love my FB
C’est la vie.
Just Like Arthur
He’s the king of all knights
Could be the prince of your nights
He can play real drums
He can play real guitar
He can play real bass
And he can really sing.
He can play real keys
On his external organ
He can play real violin
And he can sing.
He can play real drums
He can play real guitar
He can play real bass
And he can really sing …for sure
He can play real keys
On his external organ
He can play real violin
And he can sing.
He’s the king of all knights
Could be the prince of your nights.
Mademoiselle Xoupp
Au hasard des allées du musée déserté, apparaît votre pâle peau d'ivoire que découpent de minces yeux noirs.
Où sont vos bijoux, triste histoire de couple ?
Où êtes vous, Mademoiselle Xoupp ?
D’un simple fond d’étoupe balayé de moire,
apparaît dans une petite robe noire votre corps drapé de secrets
Où sont vos bijoux, sinistre entourloupe ?
Qu’attendez-vous, Mademoiselle Xoupp ?
Gémissements des parquets et au long des longs murs lactés, apparaît, perdu dans le noir votre pale regard qui voit sans y voir.
Ainsi exposée aux cimaises du musée, apparait, amer ciboire
l’étrange et douce langueur qui vous hante à la tombée du soir.
Où sont vos bijoux, sinistre banqueroute?
Qu’attendez vous, Mademoiselle Xoupp ?
Une foule qui s’attroupe, un si frêle espoir, regards intrigués
et moues amusées…Que cachez vous, quelle est votre histoire ?
Où sont vos bijoux, sinistre banqueroute?
Qu’attendez vous, Mademoiselle Xoupp ?
Les portes se sont fermées.Et dans le silence du musée,
du cadre en bois de loupe, résonnent vos pleurs de femme délaissée
Sortez vos mouchoirs